I'm trying not to move... it's just your ghost passing through.

I pull my own hair... I touch my face.  I tug at my ears.  Proof that I am still here. Proof that I exist. 

Proof that I still feel.  Anything. 

  You're touch has become imaginary.  Ghostly in the way that I remember it. A touch that gives me goosebumps and reminds me that I have been touched but I don't know from who anymore.  -from the desk of S.C. Browne